If someone was hurling horrible, unthinkable accusations at you, wouldn’t you respond? Especially if it was a terrible thing you were being accused of that you didn’t even do? I know I would! If someone accused me of something that wasn’t accurate, I would stand up in a heartbeat and deny it.

I just find it very very odd that my birth family found my blog and has been reading it, they know that I know they read it, and still absolute silence on the sexual abuse issue.

I have written several posts just putting out ponderings of possible sexual abuse. Then, in two posts last week I straight up accused my father of sexually abusing me, and I commented that my mother knew about it, and may have even taken part herself. Then, to make sure they didn’t miss it, I tweeted those posts to my cousin. He is a pastor. He is also very close with my mother’s mother. My grandmother likes to start trouble throughout that family, and I’m sure she leapt at the chance to spread THAT juicy news!

I haven’t heard anything on the subject from any member of that family. Even my cousin that I tweeted chose to remain silent.

Now, I know that I ended contact with the whole lot of those worthless lumps. I just really expected to find an email in my trash folder (All their emails go straight to Trash, do no pass Go, do not collect $100), explaining how I am obviously “troubled” to make such accusations. Or a comment on one of those posts. I know I would have said something long ago if I had been accused of doing such a thing to a person who was entrusted to my care. Even if it WAS true, I wouldn’t want people believing it! I would fall all over myself to make sure my name wasn’t linked to the sexual abuse of my daughter.

I was really wanting to send an email to my mother and father the other day. Directly pointing my finger at them. NAMING their sin. EXPOSING them. Jay talked me out of it. He told me that all it would do is cause me to have expectations that I KNEW would not be met. I have gone to my birth parents many times with issues I have regarding the way they have treated me. Each time was met with denial and mocking. I walked away from each conversation feeling like a stupid liar who wasn’t important enough to be validated by her own birth family.

I suppose I don’t need to worry about having that conversation with my birth parents. I know that, when the time is right, they will be judged and found guilty. God will take care of all that for me one day. And they should fear His judgement and wrath far more than mine.

I have found myself slipping back into a depression. This weekend all I wanted to do was sleep, get drunk, and eat, which is pretty much all I did.

I know that I need to take steps to keep from getting even more down. I know that I need to make sure to shower regularly, and eat normal amounts (not too much, not too little). I need to make sure that I am not sleeping too much. I need to insert positive experiences into my day by doing little things that I enjoy.

I know what I need to do, but I also know it’s a lot easier to just hide in my hotel room when I’m not working. I just want to bury my feelings in alcohol and sleep.

Jay and I have been spending time with another couple. They have been through a lot of crap, like we have, and they’ve been married for almost 25 years. They also know what it’s like to struggle with and love people with mental illnesses. They have been helping Jay come out of his funk by giving him other people to talk to, different perspectives on things, and encouragement. I like hanging out with them, too. They help me to not feel so isolated.

I guess tonight I will try to push myself to leave the hotel room by going for a walk downtown with Jay, or by hanging out with the other couple. Either way it will keep me from drinking myself into a stupor and falling asleep early again.

This song always makes me sad, and makes me think of how I myself was as a young teen. I wish I had had this song to listen to then. It might have made me feel better. Now, I just remember my shitty teenage years and want to cry when I hear this song. Still a good one, though. 🙂

Conversations with my thirteen year old self
Conversations with my thirteen year old self

You’re angry
I know this
The world couldn’t care less
You’re lonely
I feel this
And you wish you were the best
No teachers
Or guidance
And you always walk alone
You’re crying
At night when
Nobody else is homeCome over here and let me hold your hand and hug you darling
I promise you that it won’t always feel this bad
There are so many things I want to say to you
You’re the girl I used to be
You little heartbroken thirteen year old me

You’re laughing
But you’re hiding
God I know that trick too well
You forget
That I’ve been you
And now I’m just the shell
I promise
I love you and
Everything will work out fine
Don’t try to
Grow up yet
Oh just give it some time

The pain you feel is real you’re not asleep but it’s a nightmare
But you can wake up anytime
Oh don’t lose your passion or the fighter that’s inside of you
You’re the girl I used to be
The pissed off complicated thirteen year old me

Conversations with my thirteen year old self
Conversations with my thirteen year old self

Until we meet again
Oh I wish you well oh
I wish you well
Little girl
Until we meet again
Oh
I wish you well
Little girl
I wish you well
Until we meet again
My little thirteen year old me

I thought that you were driving, but you’ve given me the wheel
There’s rain clouds out there, that you don’t wanna feel
Your anger’s like a razor blade, it’s just too bloody real
I thought that you would be here, no I just don’t get it
Hey I also feel things more than I should
I don’t relax very often, as often as I could
I worry how the whole thing looks, it doesn’t look good
But I thought that you would be here, no I just don’t get it
And being clear gets too much for me, just like it does for you
Even though I want to, I want to, I don’t

I don’t feel like calming down, no I don’t
I don’t feel like hiding out, so I won’t
I can’t turn the volume down, so I sit here in this
Chaos and piss, watching the storm passing
Storms are beautiful, right here it’s beautiful

I came all this way to be with you, and you’re already gone
If I was a good friend, I could write this wrong
I’d kick away your crutches, make you walk on your own
I really thought you’d be here, I just don’t get it
Though it looks warm in the rabbit hole, I could go down with you
Even though I want to, I want to, I won’t

I don’t feel like calming down, no I don’t
I don’t feel like hiding out, so I won’t
I can’t turn the volume down, so I sit here in this
Chaos and piss, watching the storm passing
It’s beautiful

I’m a willow tree, you can’t blow me over
And my roots go deep in anger
I wanna feel the wind as it whips me like a prisoner
I wanna be here
I wanna be here

No I don’t feel like calming down, no I don’t
I don’t feel like hiding out, so I won’t
I can’t turn the volume down, so I sit here in this
Chaos and piss, watching the storm passing
Storms are beautiful, this life is beautiful
It is

I will say up front that this post is very very long, but it is definitely worth reading. It is a description of the night that I thought I was going to be raped, tortured, and killed. There is also more cussing than usual. I want to say that now so that no one will be offended. You have been warned.

I am not usually social with people. Especially with people that I work with. I do not go out. I don’t go to “friends’” houses. I pretty much stay in the hotel, unless I’m working. I was invited to a “Girl’s Night” that was to take place this past Saturday with some ladies in the office. I drove another woman (to be referred to as A) to the party who has anxiety issues. We both talked on the way over about being hesitant to even go in the first place. We both feel very awkward and uncomfortable in social situations. Maybe it was just the alcohol and “party favors”, but we actually found ourselves having fun. We laughed, talked, and drank wine. Then, around 9:00 or 9:30, there was a knock at the door.

I guess I should set the scene, just a little. There were three other women there besides myself. Two were married (the already mentioned A, along with J). One was not. The single gal (to be referred to as C) was the one hosting the party. It was in her apartment, located in an apartment complex that is difficult to find. In order to enter the building, one must be buzzed in. The hostess had already been informed that strippers were out of the question, along with any male presence.

A knock on the door…

“Who is it?” – C

“It’s the police, ma’am. Please open the door” – unknown male

“Let me see your badge.” – C

“Ma’am, you need to open the door.” – unknown male

“I’m not opening the door until I see your badge.” – C

After a couple tense seconds pass, C backs away from the door and starts laughing. Then says, “I don’t know who you are, but you have a nice ass!” Yes, this “police officer” had just mooned her. Now, at this point, we are all thinking that the mooner at the door is really a guy or two that we all know from work who live around the corner from C.

C starts going back and forth with this guy again, asking for ID, or at the very least a name. I mean, there are four pretty drunk ladies alone in this apartment. I haven’t heard a SOUND from any other neighbors, so I don’t even know if the other apartments are occupied.

So, C is giggling, thinking that we know this person, but she still says she’s not answering the door. J is joking around, saying that she should open the door. I am standing off to the side, AWAY from the door, saying, “Don’t open that fucking door until you see some ID.” A is standing beside me. She hasn’t been saying anything that I can remember, but she is obviously freaked out (as was I!). Then, for some completely dumbass reason that I will NEVER understand, J decides to open the door. C even said, “I’M not going to open the door, but someone else can!” I kept saying “Don’t open the door!” and “I’m not opening that door.”

In walks a youngish (which really could have been anywhere from late teens to late thirties – some guys you just can’t tell) dude with his pants undone. As soon as I see this, I think, “That fucking bitch C ordered a striper.” I said C had already been informed strippers were out, but she is also the unattached one, so I thought she may have thought it would make a good joke.

Behind this guy walks a very petite girl with a dark bob around her face. After she opens her mouth to speak, we realize she is Czech or something. Her dress looked more like a slip, and it was impossibly short.

I cannot remember an exact play-by-play after this. I was going back and forth in my head between RAGE that C would order a stripper, and confusion as to what was actually happening.

The dude started buttoning up his pants right after he walked in the door, and C offered them a drink. As they guy walks over to a wing chair like he owns the place, C says, “What was your name again?”

I heard that and I was like, “WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?! She doesn’t know him?” My next thought was again that he was a stripper, and he and C had arranged this in advance, over the phone or something, which is why she asked what his name was AGAIN, meaning she had heard it before. That’s what I thought. No, apparently it was just a more polite way of asking a person you don’t know what their name is.

At this point, I thought it may be necessary to arm myself. Crazy Jay may be paranoid, but at least he taught me that anything can be used as a weapon. I picked up the wine opener; the kind with the hard metal screw. I arranged it in my hand so that the sharp metal screw was sticking out between my ring and middle finger, and made a fist.

So, the dude sits down in the wing chair, and the little Czech girl sat on the arm. Her skirt rode up so high, I was sure anyone across from her could see right up it. Then, the guy started asking us questions.

“So where are you all from? Do you live here? Do you ALL live here? What do you do?” That kind of thing. For some stupid reason, C kept answering his questions from the kitchen (she was making the two drinks). She was actually giving him personal information about herself. I was frozen on the couch, looking at the dude and his chick, but not saying ONE WORD. It was starting to dawn on me that this was a VERY dangerous situation. The way C was talking to him, I realized that she really DIDN’T know these people, and that this guy was NOT a stripper. He was just some random dude who heard women laughing in an apartment, and thought he would insert himself in the fun.

C brings the dude and chick their drinks.

“Thanks, baby.” – freaky dude

THAT sent up more red flags. Why is he so personal with someone he doesn’t know? Why is he calling C “baby”?

C goes back to the kitchen (where J ran to right after the pair sat down. Funny, she had the balls to let them in, but couldn’t stay in the same room as them?). Now, it’s a small apartment, so you could look right over the counter in the kitchen into the living where I was sitting on the couch, A was in a wing chair directly to my right, and the freak couple were off to my left, but with a big glass table in between us. That’s when shit got freaky. Well, MUCH freakier.

Dude looks around the room. “Who’s going to show me some titties?”

Ummm…EXCUSE ME????? I was frozen. Then C says, “Let’s see yours, first.” Dude stood up, walked to the center of the room, and pulled his shirt up high. I can’t tell you how he looked. I looked away.

Then, he glanced around and said, “OK, your turn. Let’s see some titties.” And his Czech chick said, “Yes, some titties would be nice. I would like to see some titties.”

At that point I looked at A. “Are you ready to go?” I asked her. She JUMPED up. We both stroked it out to the closet to grab our coats and put them on FAST. As A made her way to the door, I walked over to C, still with the wine opener in my hand. I told her that we were going to leave. THAT is finally the time that she said to these strangers who wanted to see our breasts, “Ok, you have to go. You’re making my friends uncomfortable.”

They got up to go, but the dude was bitching about it the entire time. “Fine, I guess we’ll NEVER come back here again. We were just trying to join the party. So sorry to have OFFENDED you.” On and on. The freaky part was that his rant was loaded with sarcasm and anger. Why is he MAD that he is being kicked out? I would think any normal person would understand.

The freak show walked out the door, and I ran up to it and bolted it in both places. No fucking way were they coming back in.

Jay told me later that I should have left, even though the freaks were gone. He’s probably right. I’m not sure what I was thinking, besides relief that the danger was gone. It didn’t occur to me at the time that they may come back. It didn’t occur to me until I was leaving that maybe they would be waiting for us in the parking lot. Then again, as A and I were trying to leave and I was telling C we were going, the dude was talking to A, asking where she lived and where she was going. A told him that she lived right across the hall, and that hers and my husband were in there waiting for us.

I went into the bathroom to try and compose myself. I was practically hyperventilating. Trying not to cry. Trying to swallow it all. Who knows what could have happened? I mean, the guy was pissed that he had to leave, what if he hadn’t gone so easily? I was trying to squash the visions I had in my head of him pulling a gun and making us all do freaky sex stuff. Trying to squash the visions of him trying us up and cutting off body parts, one by one. Of writing, “I killed these crazy bitches!” on the wall with our blood. Yeah, there were all kinds of things going through my mind.

You know what still gets me? That this guy tried to pretend to be a cop to gain access to the apartment. That right there says he was up to no good. He even had a patch on the arm of his coat that could be mistaken for a cop badge. When that didn’t work, he changed tactics.

As I’m typing this out, I’m really trying not to freak out again. The entire experience was so fucked up and crazy. So scary. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to Jay about it. This will be the first time he has heard/read the entire story. I really wanted to text him after it happened, but I waited because I wanted him to hear the story in its entirety. I had thought (and I told the other ladies) that he would have been proud of me for grabbing that wine opener. Nobody else thought to grab a weapon. I may not have gotten away, but at least I could have poked out the fucker’s eyeball. When I got home that night, Jay and I fought about something entirely different, so I didn’t tell him. Then, we were having issues again Sunday morning. When we finally straightened things out on Sunday, he seemed so exhausted, so I didn’t want to heap my story on him then. I know that he is going through a lot emotionally, and it just didn’t seem to be the right time. I know the entire thing was freaky and scary, but I was really just BURSTING to tell him about it. I just kept thinking he would be proud of me.

I finally started to tell Jay on Sunday evening, but then we went to hang with A and her husband. I was at least able to start the story for Jay before we left. When we got to A and her husband’s place, I told both of them that I hadn’t told Jay what happened yet, but that I wanted to be the one to tell him. The husband said ok. So did A, but as the evening wore on and she drank more, I guess she forgot. She said something about a guy at the party lifting up his shirt, and Jay lost it.

I tried to tell Jay what had happened then, but A kept jumping in with details that were not in order, just causing confusion in Jay’s mind. It wasn’t pretty. That monkey was going full blast in his ear, and Jay couldn’t hear anything I said. I suppose that’s a whole nother story, though. All I wanted to tell here was that freaky experience.

I am not going back to C’s place. I probably would have come to this conclusion on my own if I had had a chance to relive the story when I told Jay. I would have remembered the fear, and feeling of helplessness. I would have remembered the confusion and wondering if I would live through the experience. Jay made me promise not to go back. I wasn’t happy at the time to agree, but it was what the monkey needed to be quieted a bit. At this point, after writing this all out and REMEMBERING, I have no desire to go back to that place. I wouldn’t feel safe in that apartment. And I wouldn’t feel safe with a woman who thought it was a good idea to allow her door to be opened to strangers. Now I’m remembering why I don’t leave the house very much.

Like this:

I haven’t written anything in a few days. I thought it had been more like two weeks, but my last post was Friday. I’m not doing too well. I’m not sure how I got through this weekend alive. Huh, that actually has two meanings. Not only did I have thoughts about killing myself, but I was put in a situation where I had the potential to be raped, tortured, nipples cut off, blood written on the wall, and then my throat slit as I’m left to bleed out on the floor. Sorry, that got a little icky. I’ll post about that later today – maybe. Back to the topic, I am feeling flat. I was feeling sad and on my way to hopelessness. I think as a way to protect myself, I’ve just had to shut off my feelings. Feel numb. I have no release. Well, there’s one but I had hoped I wouldn’t go back to that. Too late. If I didn’t have that little release from time to time, I think I may have driven off one of the many mountains around here. I almost did on my lunch break yesterday. Instead, I went back to the hotel to try and shut up the fucking monkey that’s been cleaving to Jay. It didn’t work as well as I had hoped.

This morning seemed to start off better, but who knows how the day will progress? Each day these past couple weeks have been like walking through a minefield. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. The worst part is when I’m made to feel that I’m crazy for thinking I’m walking through a minefield – “No need to walk on eggshells” – and then a mine EXPLODES without warning. One that’s about twenty feet away that I wasn’t even looking at. And, of course, I am the one to take the impact, but I must do it without complaint.

Yeah, things are seeming pretty crappy right now. Every second I’m awake is like drifting through life while trying to balance on the edge of a razor blade. All I can do is keep going. I know that things will get better. It’s just going to be shit until it gets there.

I am a middle child. I am two years and one month younger than my brother. I am one month shy of being five years older than my sister. The experts argue back and forth as to whether or not birth order affects personality and future behavior. I think it absolutely does. I feel how I was treated as a middle child directly contributed to my having borderline personality disorder. I have to tell myself I was treated the way I was because I was a middle child. Otherwise that confirms my deepest fear of being a total piece of shit and completely unlovable.

Wikipedia states that having middle child syndrome is akin to having an identity crisis. It “…commonly affects children who were born with an equivalent number of older and younger siblings. Middle children are often ignored by their parents who give more attention to their older and younger siblings. They are often compared to or chastised for not being like their elder siblings, or for not being a better example for their younger siblings. These factors usually create feelings of neglect, loneliness, and unimportance.”

Wow. So, middle children that don’t have parents who know how to properly juggle multiple children end up being ignored. It seems when they do receive attention, it is to point out how they are not as good as their older or younger sibling. Feelings of neglect, loneliness, and unimportance? That sounds like a recipe for BPD to me!

There is a really great article I found on some parent site. I really just wanted to cut and paste the entire thing, but I suppose I will have to settle for including the link here, instead. This article starts by jumping right in and stating that being the middle child could very well affect one’s personality, as birth order has been known to play a major role in the personality traits and other characteristics that children develop. This article goes on to say that the middle child tends to feel like they don’t belong, and struggle to find their place, both in their family, and in the world at large. The older and younger child most usually receive the most attention, so the middle child feels unwanted and not as important as the others. They begin to feel inferior to others, and believe that their thoughts, opinions, and contributions do not hold much weight. These feelings of worthlessness and inferiority can obviously lead to depression, among other things. Something else this article mentioned that hadn’t before occurred to me was that middle children tend to be more withdrawn in social situations. They prefer to spend time with themselves – as they have grown accustomed to doing this in a family where they feel ignored – and often don’t know how to properly interact with others due to their loner-like behavior and extreme shyness.

Now, of course, not everyone is the same. Not everyone who experiences the constant downfalls of being a middle child will develop borderline personality disorder. Not everyone who is a middle child will even have any kinds of these severe emotional problems. It’s hard for me to imagine, but I’m told there really are parents out there who love and care for their children. Even their children who were born smack dab in the middle. Some parents are actually capable of treating each of their children the same. Well, not the SAME, but with the same amount of love, attention, and respect as they give their other children.

Many sufferers of BPD experience sad, lonely, unhealthy childhoods. Some common denominators are usually repeated abuse (be it emotional, physical, or sexual), inconsistent and unsupportive care, early separation from one or both parents, familial neglect, and having caregivers who invalidate thoughts and emotions. People with borderline personality disorder are conditioned to care for and comfort themselves. They learn to keep their real thoughts and feelings hidden and instead become a chameleon, adapting to whatever situation they happen to find themselves in. They struggle with feelings of self-loathing, inferiority, and low self-worth.

I can see a lot of connections between being a middle child – or, more specifically, having middle child syndrome – and having borderline personality disorder. In both cases, the person feels less than. In both cases, the person has to learn to adapt to abandonment or neglect. Both feel ignored and invalidated. Both long for love and attention while simultaneously struggling with trust issues. Both learn to keep their true thoughts and feelings hidden because they know their emotions are either ignored or flat-out unwanted by their supposed loved ones.

I know that the causes of borderline personality disorder are debated, and it’s very likely that there is more than one cause, but I firmly believe that having a childhood like one described above immensely increases one’s chance of having this disorder. Whenever a child is neglected, unloved, abused in any way, invalidated, criticized and put down on a regular basis, they run the risk of becoming an unhealthy adult with emotional issues. I haven’t been able to find much online about the relationship between being a middle child and having BPD, but I wonder what percentage of BPD sufferers were middle children? I wonder if any studies have been done to test this? Again, I wasn’t able to locate much on the internet about this topic, so my guess is that no major studies have been done. Definitely an interesting thought for the future, though.